The neverending election

By Jay Ashley / Times-News

Published: Friday, November 2, 2012 at 01:35 PM.

I did something I said I’d never do: I voted early.

I was sitting at my desk last week, browsing Facebook, reading newspapers and checking email. Everything was about politics and nothing was pleasant. Like the clarity that comes from a direct injection of mescaline to the temple, I realized the madness had to stop.

Here’s something about being in the newspaper business: We are always working in the future. We are working on Sunday’s newspaper on Friday. The features department started preparing the Thanksgiving and Christmas calendars before Halloween. My life goes by in large chunks. In newspaper years, I am about 435 years old and during every one of those years, politics and the threat of elections have hung around like those old sneakers over powerlines. It’s only two more years ‘til the off-year elections.

This election cycle has been overblown and toxic. I have never in my life read so many lies, so many truths and heard so much bullcrap. No one is happy. No one listens to anyone else. Like Sinead O’Connor, I wanted to shave my head and stop the madness. Instead, in my weakened state of overdose, I concluded voting was the only way to make the horror go away. What better way to celebrate the most troublesome of holidays than to cram a few ballot boxes?

When I pulled the lever, I imagined, the clouds would part, the rainbow would appear, we would live in peace and sing Kumbaya to one another. The political signs and arguments would cease. Letters to the editor would get back to important issues like vandals in the cemetery or people who run over dogs in the street and don’t stop. If I could just make it to the ballot box, the voices in my head would go stop, the campaigning would stop, the telephone pollsters would stop, the lying mailers would stop, the TV talking heads would shut up, the ceaseless punditry would dissipate and we could stop running stories and candidate questions and sponsoring forums that don’t attract enough people to field a Squamish team. People in social media would get back to putting up pictures of kittens and puppies or cute shots of their kids and grandkids instead of the panic postings that prove the president is the spawn of Satan or his challenger eats senior citizens for snacks.

The line to vote was 30-minutes long. I got bribed with an emery board touting a state house candidate and a piece of sugar candy promoting a judge. At least when I lapse into a diabetic coma, I can go to the hospital with presentable fingernails. A Democrat handed me a light blue leaflet outlining the party slate and a Republican gave me a red sheet with their choices. What I thought was a guy handing out “I Voted” stickers was actually a guy who slapped a “Romney/Ryan” sticker on my coat before I could protest that I didn’t want to be a walking campaign sign for anyone, no matter how I intended to vote. Sigh.

Providentially for everyone and my mental health, the line soon moved into that protective zone where electioneering is not allowed. I was out of range of the argosy of party workers. I was recognized by some south Alamance homefolks like a wounded soldier or a wrongly accused madman making it to sanctuary. We conversed about neighbors who have passed the vale of tears and those still shuffling on the terra. I began to decompress a bit. This standing in line, legally protected from the madness, was calming, like being in a bubble. It was a pretty day, sunny, and even if someone passed gas in line, like they did the last presidential election, it would dissipate as quickly as my anxiety.

I was sitting at my desk last week, browsing Facebook, reading newspapers and checking email. Everything was about politics and nothing was pleasant. Like the clarity that comes from a direct injection of mescaline to the temple, I realized the madness had to stop.

Here’s something about being in the newspaper business: We are always working in the future. We are working on Sunday’s newspaper on Friday. The features department started preparing the Thanksgiving and Christmas calendars before Halloween. My life goes by in large chunks. In newspaper years, I am about 435 years old and during every one of those years, politics and the threat of elections have hung around like those old sneakers over powerlines. It’s only two more years ‘til the off-year elections.

This election cycle has been overblown and toxic. I have never in my life read so many lies, so many truths and heard so much bullcrap. No one is happy. No one listens to anyone else. Like Sinead O’Connor, I wanted to shave my head and stop the madness. Instead, in my weakened state of overdose, I concluded voting was the only way to make the horror go away. What better way to celebrate the most troublesome of holidays than to cram a few ballot boxes?

When I pulled the lever, I imagined, the clouds would part, the rainbow would appear, we would live in peace and sing Kumbaya to one another. The political signs and arguments would cease. Letters to the editor would get back to important issues like vandals in the cemetery or people who run over dogs in the street and don’t stop. If I could just make it to the ballot box, the voices in my head would go stop, the campaigning would stop, the telephone pollsters would stop, the lying mailers would stop, the TV talking heads would shut up, the ceaseless punditry would dissipate and we could stop running stories and candidate questions and sponsoring forums that don’t attract enough people to field a Squamish team. People in social media would get back to putting up pictures of kittens and puppies or cute shots of their kids and grandkids instead of the panic postings that prove the president is the spawn of Satan or his challenger eats senior citizens for snacks.

The line to vote was 30-minutes long. I got bribed with an emery board touting a state house candidate and a piece of sugar candy promoting a judge. At least when I lapse into a diabetic coma, I can go to the hospital with presentable fingernails. A Democrat handed me a light blue leaflet outlining the party slate and a Republican gave me a red sheet with their choices. What I thought was a guy handing out “I Voted” stickers was actually a guy who slapped a “Romney/Ryan” sticker on my coat before I could protest that I didn’t want to be a walking campaign sign for anyone, no matter how I intended to vote. Sigh.

Providentially for everyone and my mental health, the line soon moved into that protective zone where electioneering is not allowed. I was out of range of the argosy of party workers. I was recognized by some south Alamance homefolks like a wounded soldier or a wrongly accused madman making it to sanctuary. We conversed about neighbors who have passed the vale of tears and those still shuffling on the terra. I began to decompress a bit. This standing in line, legally protected from the madness, was calming, like being in a bubble. It was a pretty day, sunny, and even if someone passed gas in line, like they did the last presidential election, it would dissipate as quickly as my anxiety.

I have never voted early before on the rationale that if I voted early for someone, the next day he would be on the front page accused of being a drunken pervert, revealed as a predator Scoutmaster or beater of women and children.

I also like to vote on election day because I get to see all the ladies and gents who work the polls at Fairchild. I only get to see them once every two years, but they’re fun to be around. To some people, that’s the ideal length of time between family reunions. They are a great bunch, they never ask me for a loan, they don’t ask my opinion on anything and they know when I show up, it’s about time for the polls to close so they can get home, take off their shoes and soak their feet in Epsom salts.

To end this screed, my vote was cast. The heavens did not rain down praise or punishment. Aside from a few candidate candy wrappers peeking from beneath the potted plants along the street and the sidewalk, there was no indication anywhere that one thing had changed. And by the ads and robocalls and electioneering still persisting in my life, nothing has changed. Neither Left nor Right will shut up. Maybe they will next election. Ha.

Jay Ashley is managing editor of the Times-News. He remains politically scarred at jashley@thetimesnews.com